I was nine when my father first sent me flowers. I had been taking tapdancing（踢踏舞） lessons for six months, and the school was giving its yearly recital¹（朗诵）. As an excited member of the beginners' chorus line, I was aware of my lowly status. 

 

So it was a surprise to have my name called out at the end of the show along with the lead dancers and to find my arms full of long-stemmed red roses. I can still feel myself standing² on that stage, blushing furiously and gazing over the footlights to see my father's grin as he applauded loudly.

 

Those roses were the first in a series of large bouquets⁴（花束，宴会） that accompanied all the milestones⁵ in my life. They brought a sense of embarrassment⁶. I enjoyed them, but was flustered⁷ by the extravagance.

 

Not my father. He did everything in a big way. If you sent him to the bakery for a cake, he came back with three. Once, when Mother told him I needed a new party dress, he brought home a dozen.

 

His behavior often left us without funds for other more important things. After the dress incident, there was no money for the winter coat I really needed--or the new ice skates I wanted.

 

Sometimes I would be angry with him, but not for long. Inevitably⁸ he would buy me something to make up with me. The gift was so apparently⁹ an offering of love he could not verbalize（累赘，唠叨） that I would throw my arms around him and kiss him--an act that undoubtedly¹⁰ perpetuated¹¹ his behavior.

 

Then came my 16th birthday. It was not a happy occasion. I was fat and had no boyfriend. And my well-meaning parents furthered my misery¹² by giving me a party. As I entered the dining room, there on the table next to my cake was a huge bouquet³ of flowers, bigger than any before.

 

I wanted to hide. Now everyone would think my father had sent flowers because I had no boyfriend to do it. Sweet 16, and I felt like crying. I probably would have, but my best friend, Phyllis, whispered, "Boy, you're lucky to have a father like that.

 

As the years passed, other occasions--birthdays, recitals¹³, awards, graduations--were marked with Dad's flowers. My emotions continued to seesaw¹⁴ between pleasure and embarrassment.

 

When I graduated from college, though, my days of ambivalence¹⁵ were over. I was embarking¹⁶ on a new career and was engaged to be married. Dad's flowers symbolized¹⁷ his pride, and my triumph. They evoked¹⁸ only great pleasure.

 

Now there were bright-orange mums for Thanksgiving and a huge pink poinsettia at Christmas. White lilies at Easter, and velvety¹⁹ red roses for birthdays. Seasonal²⁰ flowers in mixed bouquets celebrated²¹ the births of my children and the move to our first house.

 

As my fortunes grew, my father's waned²², but his gifts of flowers continued until he died of a heart attack a few months before his 70th birthday. Without embarrassment, I covered his coffin²³ with the largest, reddest roses I could find.

 

Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. Often in the dozen years since, I felt an urge to go out and buy a big bouquet to fill the living room, but I never did. I knew it would not be the same.

 

Then one birthday, the doorbell rang. I was feeling blue because I was alone. My husband was playing golf, and my two daughters were away. My 13-year-old son, Matt, had run out earlier with a "see you later," never mentioning my birthday. So I was surprised to see his large frame at the door. "Forgot my key," he said, shrugging. "Forgot your birthday too. Well, I hope you like flowers, Mum." He pulled a bunch of daisies from behind his back.

 

"Oh, Matt," I cried, hugging him hard. "I love flowers!"

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